Page 41 of Take Me Away

‘For nearly a mile? In this?’ He gestures to the increasingly heavy mizzle. ‘You’d fall and break something else.’ Before I can argue further, he’s scooping me up with ridiculous ease, one arm under my knees, the other supporting my back. I instinctively grab his shoulder to steady myself. There’s solid muscle beneath the damp of his jumper.

‘I’ve got her,’ Kit tells the others. ‘Tom, can you radio out to Jude and let him know I’m back early from the boat and won’t be there when he docks. I’ll get Cal to help him in.’

‘Honestly, it’s fine—’ I try and cut in, but he just marches us away from the lighthouse, my body cradled against his chest like I weigh nothing.

His pace is steady, his breathing barely affected. The silence stretches uncomfortably between us. My head whirls with a heady mix of Kit Harding scent and excruciating pain.

‘I thought you were out on the boat,’ I finally say, just to break the quiet.

‘I thought you weren’t the type to do manual labour.’ His voice is dry.

‘I thought you weren’t speaking to me.’

‘I thought you’d be gone by now.’

‘I thought fishermen checked weather forecasts.’

‘I thought Hollywood stars had assistants to carry rocks.’

‘I thought small towns were supposed to be friendly.’

Each retort comes quicker than the last, neither of us looking at the other. I can feel the rumble of his words against my side where I’m pressed against his chest.

‘Well,’ I say finally, ‘we were both wrong about a lot of things.’

That silences him for three more steps.

‘Not everything,’ he mutters.

The path narrows, forcing him to adjust his grip. His arms tighten, drawing me closer against him.

‘You can put me down if you need a rest,’ I offer.

‘I’m fine.’ His jaw is set. ‘You’re lighter than you should be.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You’ve lost weight. Too much.’

I bristle. ‘Hollywood does that to you.’

‘Hollywood’s left you half the girl you were,’ he mutters. His eyes remain fixed ahead, but the muscle in his jaw tics.

‘Worried about me, Harding?’ I shoot back.

He merely huffs what could be a laugh.

I turn my face away, watching the sea in the distance rather than the profile I’ve tried so hard to forget. We complete the rest of the journey in silence, the only sounds our breathing and the soft squelch of his boots in the mud.

Salt Cottage appears finally, its windows dark in the grey afternoon light. Kit pushes through the garden gate with his shoulder, navigating the path to the door.

‘Keys?’ he asks.

‘In my pocket.’

He sets me down carefully on the stone bench by the door, keeping one arm around my waist for support while I dig the keys from my jeans. Our faces are close, his beard catching droplets of mizzle that glint like tiny stars. This close, I can see the flecks of gold in his blue eyes.

The lock clicks, and he lifts me again, carrying me inside to the sofa. I sink into the cushions, already missing his warmth despite myself.